Menu

Monthly Archives: September 2017

I met Roshni, a short and curvy Indian girl, inside of H&M by Oxford Circus. We had made eye-contact as she walked by me, and as I opened, there was instant eye-spazz. Even though the set could have went smoother, it resulted in me getting her out on a date. We spent it in my usual first venue pub in Covent Garden. It felt very on from the start, but I didn’t escalate further than some light touching. It was all very pleasant. I smiled a lot and enjoyed the conversation. But when I went for the kiss, she rejected the attempt. I was surprised at the time, but now I realise what the problem was. Like on the date with the gorgeous Burmese girl, this one was steering into boyfriend territory, right under my nose. I’d been too comfortable and too comfort-heavy. And now, that had resulted in her non-compliance. When time came to bounce to the second venue, she started putting up resistance. “No, let’s stay here.” I wouldn’t buckle, but still, this wasn’t the behaviour of a girl who’s firmly in your frame.

We went to the second and third venues, and I tried kissing her many more times, which was another mistake. It gave her too much power. We were talking dirty, I was touching her boobs (which were enormous), but she just wouldn’t kiss! At the end of the date I stole an apple from the bar we were in (it was in a fruit bowl on a table, meant to serve as decoration). As we were parting, she did something that really defined the whole story with her. She said: “If you weren’t eating that apple I’d kiss you.” I didn’t care and told her I liked my apple, before we said goodbye.

I went home to Stockholm for two weeks and texted her to keep her warm. Part of me knew that she’d put me in the wrong box, but since I didn’t have enough leads to not have time to message all of them, I decided that she was worth the time [1].

I came back to London, and we arranged a second date. I tried kissing her early on, and she rebuffed the attempt. “Here we go again,” I thought. She started shit testing me, accusing me of being a player and saying that she didn’t believe a word I said. She asked about what I’d done in Sweden and quite blatantly inquired about any possible interactions with members of the opposite sex. This was another bad sign. When she’s sizing you up to be the boyfriend, she’s naturally going to demand exclusivity on your part. I only gave vague answers. I started to get tired of the whole thing. I felt gamey, she was being gamey, and the interaction felt so disingenuous. I told her I needed to go home. She felt the push and started asking me if I was bored. I was, quite frankly. I was bored of being milked for my time and attention and not getting anything back for it. I was irritated by her tests and constant “why?”-questions following every single one of my statements. She was acting like a spoiled, demanding child. Unsurprisingly, she told me that’s exactly what she’d been when she was little.

Somehow, somewhere along the way back to my home, my mood changed and I decided to try something new. I took her to a café called Laudurée. I know, it sounds like a place way too posh to take a girl that you want to have lover sex with. But it was close to my apartment, and we’d seeded the idea of eating macarons before. Things got more real, and it felt like we were being ourselves more. It was a breath of fresh air. When it was time to leave, I paid the bill. Again, this was probably a mistake, but the poshness of the place and the people sitting nearby made me decide not to split the bill, even though I could see Roshni was slowly reaching for her card.

We went outside and I told her I was going to play a song for her on my guitar. She came with some token resistance (“I have to go soon”). I played her a song, she snuggled up to me, and then, I went for the kiss. I finally got it! Things got more hot and I got her enormous boobs out. Boy, were they big. I had my fun with them and tried getting her bra off. It wouldn’t happen. “I won’t be able to stop myself if you do that.” Fair play, I thought, and felt content with where I’d gotten. From not even getting the kiss to heavy make-outs and playing with her massive jugs felt like enough progress to validate a third date.

I thought it was in the bag. One more date, and I’d finally get that notch. It would make it the seventh of the year, which would mean that so far, in 2017, I’d almost fucked one new girl per month. Can you tell I was counting my chickens before they hatched?

She came over for a third date, and I cooked food for us to eat. She wore tight fitting jeans and a figure-hugging black knitted top. She looked hot. I cooked, we ate, and I got really full, so I laid down on our ghetto-ass sofa [2]. “Can I join you?”, she asks. “Yes,” I reply, eager to rip those tight fitting clothes of and ravage her boobs and the rest of her body. It was finally going to happen. The notch, along with the end of over a month-long dry spell was within my reach. Nope. We started kissing briefly, before she pulled back and said “I only came here for the food.” Now this would have been acceptable behaviour if it was a genuine rationalisation on her part. It is common knowledge in the PUA-sphere that a girl doesn’t want to be the instigator for sex. She doesn’t want to be at fault. So naturally, she will say things like “We’re not going to have sex. I don’t sleep with guys so fast,” etc. But what she did next hinted that this wasn’t a case of normal anti-slut defence. After having told me that her only intention by coming to my house was to satisfy her appetite, she added on a “does that annoy you?”. She was playing games. She wasn’t “in my frame.” She didn’t respect me enough to simply let herself get fucked. Instead, she was leading me on, making me escalate on her to then rebuff my attempts with a bullshit excuse and a “does that annoy you?”™ added on the end, all the while milking me for attention and investment. Now, I did get her top and bra off while we were watching a movie, and I took my t-shirt off. Even though she wouldn’t let me take her pants off, I thought the lay might still be possible. But her shit-tests and attempts at taking the frame were leaving me with a bad taste in the mouth. It started to feel beyond my worthiness to keep chasing her. “Does that annoy you?” “You’re damn right it annoys me, you cunt!” is what I felt like saying. I was increasingly angry. I got my pants off, and she grabbed my dick. When she refused to suck it with a firm negating “mm mm,” I decided that the lay wasn’t going to happen. It was time for the apocalypse move. I got up, quite nervous about what I was intending to do, and proceeded to put all of my clothes back on. She did the same, sensing that some switch had went off in my brain. “You should go,” I told her. “Go?” she asked, seemingly surprised. “Yes. I don’t like you playing games,” I said, my hands shaking from the adrenaline rush. Growing up in Sweden makes you inherently uncomfortable with confrontation. English people say the same thing about themselves. But they have no idea. Reflecting on it now, I feel like my decision and subsequent behaviour was reasonable, but in that very moment, thoughts of doubt were racing in my head. “Am I over-reacting?” “Could I have gotten the lay with just a bit more patience?” “Is she really playing games?” Still, the point of no return had been passed. I had to stick to my decision. She collected her things before I walked her to the door and helped her unlock it. There was a brief moment where both of us were pondering how to say goodbye. Without making eye-contact or saying a word, I closed the door.

[1] Which she was. I’m a strong believer in the “any experience is good experience”-mantra.[2] It’s an old bed mattress that we’ve put on the floor. Better than nothing.